The Ghost Exorcist's Matchmaking Service

• Chapter 1: Unfinished Business and First Dates
• Chapter 2: A Phantom in the Parlor
• Chapter 3: Spectral Sparking
• Chapter 4: The Grumpy Gargoyle's Match
• Chapter 5: Love Beyond the Veil
• Chapter 6: A Hauntingly Good Impression
• Chapter 7: Ghosts Just Want to Have Fun
• Chapter 8: The Skeleton in the Closet
• Chapter 9: Dead Men Tell No Lies (But They Do Flirt)
• Chapter 10: Love Letters from the 1920s
• Chapter 11: A Match Made in Netherworld
• Chapter 12: Cold Hands, Warm Hearts
• Chapter 13: The Phantom Waltz
• Chapter 14: Booed and Betrothed
• Chapter 15: Ectoplasm and Empathy
• Chapter 16: The poltergeist's Passion
• Chapter 17: Table for Two, Plus a Ghost
• Chapter 18: Cross My Heart and Hope to Die
• Chapter 19: A Touch of the Other Side
• Chapter 20: Haunting Dreams and Midnight Schemes
• Chapter 21: The Final Rose of the Afterlife
• Chapter 22: Ties That Bind Across Time
• Chapter 23: A Spirit's Serenade
• Chapter 24: Sealed with a Spectral Kiss
• Chapter 25: The Great Beyond's Wedding Bell
• Chapter 26: Finally Crossing Over

The sign painted on the frosted glass door of my second-floor suite on Victorian Street read Evangeline Vance: Spectral Consultant & Resolution Specialist. It was a polite, professional way of saying I helped dead people dump their baggage so they could finally move on to whatever comes next. Most mediums spent their time exorcising vengeful spirits with salt, sage, and dramatic Latin incantations. I preferred a sharp outfit, a fresh pot of chamomile tea, and a sturdy box of tissues. Salt was terrible for my hardwood floors, and as far as I could tell, most ghosts weren't evil—they were just hopelessly, agonizingly heartbroken.

It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon when my two o'clock arrival made himself known. The temperature in my office plummeted instantly, turning my warm breath into small plumes of white mist. The antique brass chandelier overhead rattled softly, its crystal drops clinking together like delicate ice cubes.

"You don't have to hover in the plaster, Arthur," I said, without looking up from the intake questionnaire on my mahogany desk. "It makes the wallpaper bubble, and my landlord is already looking for an excuse to double my rent."

The wall beside the bookcase shimmered, the floral pattern blurring as a tall, narrow silhouette stepped forward. Arthur Pendelton materialized into full transparency, looking precisely like a man who had died in 1952 while wearing his very best tweed suit. He was clutching a ghostly fedora against his chest with knuckles that were entirely translucent. He had a pencil mustache, perfectly slicked hair, and an expression of desperate, earnest anxiety.

"My humblest apologies, Miss Vance," Arthur said, his voice carrying that hollow, echoes-in-a-well quality typical of spirits who had been grounded for more than half a century. "I didn't mean to cause a draft. It's just... well, I’ve never done anything like this before. Back in my day, one didn't hire a young lady to manage one's romantic affairs, let alone from beyond the veil."

"Welcome to the twenty-first century, Arthur," I said, offering him a warm smile and gesturing toward the plush velvet armchair opposite my desk. "Please, take a seat. Or hover slightly above it, if you prefer. Now, according to your intake file, you’ve been lingering around the Grand Midtown Hotel for seventy-two years."

Arthur floated down onto the edge of the velvet chair, his form flickering like a weak lightbulb before settling into a stable, faint blue glow. "Seventy-two years and three months, to be exact. I fell down the elevator shaft during the Spring Gala of 1952. A tragic accident involving a loose floorboard and an overly generous pouring of gin."

"Right. Tragic," I agreed, clicking my pen. "But sudden death alone isn't what binds a soul to the earthly plane, Arthur. You're grounded because of the rose."

Arthur’s ghostly posture stiffened, and a subtle shade of crimson flushed through his shadowy cheeks—an impressive display of phantom phantom-blood flow. "You've spoken to the intake clerks on the lower astral plane, I see."

"It's my job. You were supposed to meet a young woman named Clara in the hotel conservatory at midnight," I recalled, reviewing the notes I’d taken from my astral consultations earlier that morning. "You had an heirloom pearl engagement ring in your pocket and a red rose in your lapel. You tripped on your way to the conservatory, fell down the shaft, and died instantly. Clara waited for two hours, assumed you had cold feet, and left the hotel heartbroken."

Arthur bowed his head, staring at his translucent wingtip shoes. "She thought I abandoned her. She spent the rest of her life believing I didn't love her enough to show up. That thought... it’s a anchor, Miss Vance. It weighs more than lead. I can't look toward the light when all I can picture is Clara sitting alone by the fountain, crying into her velvet purse."

"I understand," I said softly. This was the core of my practice. The living often assumed ghosts were trapped by unresolved murders, buried treasure, or ancient curses. In reality, ninety percent of the hauntings in the tri-state area were caused by unsaid apologies, unconfessed crushes, and horrible misunderstandings. Unfinished romantic business was the strongest glue in the universe.

"The good news," I continued, turning a page on my pad, "is that Clara passed away three weeks ago at a nursing home in Connecticut. She lived a long, full life, Arthur. She married a lovely accountant in 1958, had three children, six grandchildren, and took up watercolor painting in her seventies."

Arthur looked up, a mixture of profound relief and faint jealousy crossing his spectral features. "She was happy?"

"She was. But when she crossed over, her spirit didn't immediately move into the higher spheres either. She’s currently resting in a transitional parlor in the upper astral terrace, sitting by a fountain, waiting."

Arthur gasped, a sound like a cold breeze rustling through dry autumn leaves. "Waiting? For whom?"

"For an explanation," I said, leaning back in my leather chair. "Which brings us to the service I provide. Exorcism is messy, aggressive, and frankly rude. I prefer matchmaking. I am going to set up a date for the two of you."

Arthur blinked his glowing eyes. "A... a date? In the afterlife?"

"A spiritual rendezvous," I corrected smoothly. "A controlled, neutral environment where the two of you can sit down, clear the air, present the engagement ring you’ve been mentally manifest-carrying for seventy years, and hopefully find closure. Once the emotional knot is untied, the metaphysical pull holding you both here will dissolve, and you can cross over together."

Arthur stared at me, his mouth opening and closing silently. "Can... can one do that? Is that permitted by the cosmic authorities?"

"I hold a license from the Board of Paranormal and Metaphysical Mediation," I assured him, tapping the framed certificate on my wall. "It’s entirely official. But before I book the celestial parlor, Arthur, we need to talk about date etiquette. The afterlife has changed since 1952, and more importantly, Clara has spent seventy years feeling burned. You can't just float in, flash your mustache, and expect

"The number one rule of spectral dating, Arthur," I said, leaning forward and resting my forearms on the polished surface of my desk, "is that you do not lead with your cause of death. Nobody wants to hear about loose elevator cables or shattered femur bones over appetizers."

Arthur winced, his translucent mustache twitching with embarrassment. "I thought it might establish... well, a sense of tragic vulnerability."

"Tragic vulnerability is for the second date," I corrected gently. "For your first twenty minutes back in Clara’s presence, you are charming, attentive, and entirely focused on her. You will ask her about her watercolor painting. You will ask her about her life. And under no circumstances do you apologize more than twice. Excessive groveling ruins the atmosphere faster than a silver crucifix."

Arthur nodded rapidly, taking notes on a ghostly pad of paper that vanished into thin air every time he lost concentration. "Charming. Attentive. Watercolors. Limit apologies. Got it."

"Good. Now run along and practice your manifestation. I want that rose looking like a fresh damask bloom, not a crumpled wad of ectoplasmic paper towels, by eight o'clock tonight."

With a quick, awkward bow that sent a shiver of arctic air through my knees, Arthur faded into the wallpaper, leaving behind only the subtle scent of old pomade and dry leaves.

I let out a long breath, slumped back into my chair, and rubbed my temples. Matching the living was a nightmare of ghosting, poor communication, and algorithmic mismatched expectations. Matching the dead, ironically, was far more straightforward, even if it came with temperature drops and the occasional unannounced haunting of my office supply closet.

I checked the antique grandfather clock ticking lazily in the corner. It was four o’clock. I had four hours before Arthur’s date with Clara, which meant I needed to prepare the Rendezvous Parlor downstairs.

My agency occupied the top two floors of an old Victorian brownstone on the edge of the city’s historic district. The third floor was my private apartment, the second floor housed my intake office, and the ground floor—hidden behind a false bookcase in the hallway—contained the Parlor. It was a specially designed room where the veil between the physical world and the astral plane was stretched as thin as parchment. It was the only room in the tri-state area where a living medium could host a dinner date between two dead people while keeping both of them anchored in space and time.

I picked up my brass key ring, tucked a box of matches into my apron pocket, and headed down the narrow winding staircase.

The air in the ground-floor hallway always felt heavy, thick with the static crackle of lingering memories. I unlocked the heavy oak door at the back of the passage, pushed it open, and stepped into the Parlor.

Or rather, I tried to step into the Parlor.

The moment my foot crossed the threshold, a blast of arctic wind slammed into my chest, knocking the breath from my lungs. The heavy velvet curtains covering the tall windows whipped violently, though the glass behind them was sealed tight. The air in the room didn't just drop a few degrees—it plummeted into deep-freeze territory. My breath bloomed into a thick white cloud, and frost instantly blossomed across the framed paintings on the wall like intricate lace.

"Out!" a thunderous voice echoed through the space, vibrating the floorboards beneath my boots. "Leave me to my eternal sorrow, cold-hearted intruder!"

I squeezed my eyes shut, took a deep, frosty breath, and clicked on the wall switch. The overhead brass chandelier flickered to life, illuminating the room in soft amber light.

Sitting dead-center on my silk-upholstered chaise lounge was a man who clearly hadn't gotten the memo about my appointment calendar.

He looked to be in his late twenties, dressed in a sweeping dark velvet cloak over a Victorian cravat and a waistcoat that had seen better centuries. He had a mop of chaotic black hair, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, and a expression of theatrical, agonized despair. He was hovering about six inches above the sofa cushions, casting a deep, iridescent purple shadow across the rug.

"Alexander," I said, setting my key ring down on the side table with a sharp clink. "We discussed this on Thursday. You cannot keep squatting in the Parlor."

Alexander Thorne, late poet of the romantic era, died of tuberculosis in 1884 and spent the last hundred and forty years brooding about it. He turned his luminous blue eyes toward me, placing a pale, translucent hand dramatically over his heart.

"Evangeline," he sighed, his voice pitching into a melodramatic register that belonged on a West End stage. "How can you speak of real estate when my soul is torn asunder? This room is the only nexus in this dreadful modern city where the residual echoes of my lost Lenore can truly resonate."

"Your 'lost Lenore' was named Susan, she was an heiress from Ohio, and she dumped you six weeks before you caught consumption because you kept writing poems about her elbows," I reminded him, walking over to the fireplace to set a small bundle of dried lavender and cedar alight in the hearth.

"Her elbows were like polished ivory!" Alexander protested, rising up a foot higher in indignation. "And her rejection was the catalyst for my greatest sonnet!"

"Which never got published because you used all the paper to line your boots," I said dryly, striking a match and setting fire to the kindling. "Listen to me, Alexander. I have a high-stakes soul resolution scheduled in this room at eight o'clock sharp. Arthur Pendelton has been waiting seventy-two years to tell his sweetie he didn't abandon her at an elevator shaft. I need the space."

Alexander floated down until his boots hovered just an inch off the Persian rug, crossing his arms over his chest. "I shall not yield. The ambient ectoplasmic resonance in this room is precisely tuned to my melancholic wavelength. If I leave now, I will be forced to haunt the damp alley behind the bakery, where the living throw out perfectly good stale croissants without a second thought for the poetic aesthetic."

I rubbed the bridge of my nose. Ghosts. If they weren't broken-hearted, they were dramatic.

"Alexander," I said, stepping closer and using my firmest, zero-nonsense medium tone. "If you do not clear out of the Parlor by five o'clock, I am pulling out the salt lines. And not the fine table salt, either. I’m bringing out the coarse sea salt mixed with iron filings. You’ll be pinned to the alley behind the bakery until Tuesday."

Alexander gasped, clutching his lapels. "You wouldn't! The iron would ruin the drape of my cloak!"

"Try me," I said, pulling a pouch of dark grey powder from my pocket. "I’ve had a very long day, my landlord is threatening to raise my rent, and I have three dozen roses to prune for a 1950s romance reconciliation. Move along."

He glared at me for three long seconds, looking for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, he let out a dramatic, billowing sigh that rattled the lamp shades.

"Very well," Alexander huffed, slowly dissolving into a cloud of violet smoke. "Cruel warden of the mortal realm! You possess no appreciation for true art."

"I appreciate clients who pay their spiritual retainer," I called out to the fading smoke. "Go haunt the library! They love tragic poets down in the local history room!"

With a faint pop, Alexander vanished, leaving behind only the faint scent of crushed violets and old paper. The temperature in the room instantly rose ten degrees, the frost melting off the picture frames in quiet, tear-like drips.

I sighed, pulling a microfiber cloth from my apron to wipe down the glass frames. Managing a matchmaking practice for the deceased was eighty percent spatial maintenance and twenty percent emotional labor.

The Rendezvous Parlor was the heart of my operation. To the untrained eye, it looked like a high-end vintage tea room: plush velvet furniture, a warm fireplace, mahogany side tables, and soft, indirect lighting. But beneath the surface, it was a masterpiece of paranormal architecture.

The walls were lined with a thin layer of crushed quartz and copper wire buried beneath the plaster, grounding the chaotic energy of roaming phantoms. The center of the room featured a heavy round table made of heartwood oak, rubbed with an oil mixture of sage, frankincense, and sweet orange. This was the Anchor Table.

When two spirits sat at the Anchor Table, the magical weave of the room lowered their ethereal frequency, allowing them to feel solid to one another. They could hold hands, share a drink (if the drink was properly enchanted with liquid ectoplasm), and look each other in the eye without flicking in and out of reality. It gave them a taste of the physical touch they had lost, which was usually the final key to letting go of the earth.

I set to work preparing the table for Arthur and Clara.

First came the tablecloth: heavy cream lace, clean and crisp. Next, I placed two silver candelabras at opposite ends, fitting them with bayberry-scented wax candles. Bayberry was excellent for clearing old grudges and encouraging honest conversation.

Then came the trickiest part: the refreshments.

Ghosts don't digest food, obviously. But the sensory memory of food—the aroma, the warmth of a teacup in hand, the click of china—was a powerful psychological comfort. In the small pantry off the Parlor, I kept my specialized supply of Spirit Teas.

I fetched a tin labeled 1950s Conservatory Blend. It was a mixture of dried chamomile, orange peel, and a small pinch of powdered starlight—a rare metaphysical herb I had to buy from a rather shady hedge-wizard named Barnaby who operated out of an antique shop downtown. When steeped in boiling water and infused with a drop of clear quartz essence, the steam created a tangible, aromatic vapor that spirits could actually smell and "taste" through sensory projection.

As I set the tea service onto a brass tray, the bell above the front entrance of the building chimed.

I frowned. It was only five-thirty. Arthur wasn't due until eight, and I didn't have any other appointments scheduled for the evening.

Leaving the Parlor, I locked the hidden door behind me and walked down the long, carpeted hallway toward the front reception area.

Standing on the welcome mat, shaking out a dripping black umbrella, was a man who was very much alive.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a sharply tailored charcoal suit that screamed corporate lawyer or high-end art dealer. He had thick dark hair trimmed neat at the sides, a straight, uncompromising nose, and eyes the dark, intense shade of espresso. He looked entirely out of place amidst the Victorian velvet and dusty brass of my lobby.

"Can I help you?" I asked, stopping behind the reception desk and leaning against the wooden counter. "If you're looking for the tax accountant next door, he closed at four."

The man closed his umbrella with a crisp snap and locked his dark eyes onto mine. He didn't look spooked, which was unusual for living walk-ins. Most people who stumbled into my office by accident felt the cold spots and ran within thirty seconds.

"Are you Evangeline Vance?" he asked. His voice was a rich, low baritone, calm and authoritative.

"I am," I said, tilting my head. "And you are?"

"Gabriel Ward," he said, stepping forward and extending a hand. His grip was warm, firm, and entirely devoid of phantom chills. "I’m the executor of the late Eleanor Vance’s estate."

I froze, my hand remaining in his for a beat longer than necessary before I pulled back. Eleanor Vance was my grandmother. She was the one who had opened this agency fifty years ago, long before the city put up streetlights, teaching me everything from salt circles to spirit negotiation. She had passed away six months ago, leaving me the brownstone, the business, and a mountain of cryptic notebooks written in Latin and shorthand.

"The estate was settled four months ago, Mr. Ward," I said, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. "The title to the building was transferred, and the probate court cleared the small business license."

"The real estate and standard assets were settled, yes," Gabriel said smoothly, taking a leather briefcase from under his arm and placing it on the desk. "However, during a secondary audit of your grandmother's private vaults at the First City Bank, a secondary codicil was located. Along with a rather... peculiar physical asset."

I folded my arms across my chest, suddenly very alert. "My grandmother didn't keep bank vaults. She didn't trust banks. She kept her valuables buried in jar under the floorboards in the Parlor."

A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched the corner of Gabriel's lips. "She kept her earthly valuables under the floorboards, Miss Vance. This vault was opened under a specialized trust. One that requires a monthly management fee that has currently lapsed."

He unclasped the brass latches of his briefcase and pulled out a manila folder, setting it down between us, followed by a small, black wooden box bound with silver wire.

The moment the box hit the desk, the air in the reception room vibrated. It wasn't the freezing cold of an angry ghost like Alexander, or the gentle mist of a lovesick spirit like Arthur. It was a low, resonant thrum, like the quiet hum of a high-voltage power line.

My breath caught in my throat. The silver wire wrapping the box wasn't decorative. It was cold-rolled sterling, etched with protective binding runes.

"What is that?" I demanded, keeping my hand well away from the box.

"According to the documentation," Gabriel said, tapping the folder, "it is an unresolved liability. Your grandmother paid the bank to hold it in a cold-storage vault for thirty years. The lease on the vault expired last week. As her sole heir and the current operator of this... business, ownership defaults to you."

"And if I refuse to accept it?"

Gabriel picked up his pen, clicking it once. "Then the trust dissolves, the binding contract is voided, and the bank clears its inventory by surrendering the object to the municipal auction."

"You can't auction an unverified magical artifact!" I snapped before I could stop myself.

Gabriel raised an eyebrow, his dark eyes sharp with quiet amusement. "So you admit it’s a magical artifact?"

I bit the inside of my cheek. I had to remember that the outside world viewed my work as either a scam or a quirky theatrical performance. The city building inspectors thought I was an interior designer with a taste for antique furniture.

"I'm saying," I amended smoothly, "that my grandmother was an eccentric woman who collected dangerous antiquities, and handing her private property over to an auction house is a lawsuit waiting to happen."

"Which is precisely why I am here," Gabriel replied, sliding the box three inches closer to me. "Sign the transfer receipt, Miss Vance, and the box is yours. Refuse, and my firm disposes of it according to standard probate protocol."

I stared at the black box. The silver runes etched along the wood were humming faintly now, a sensation I could feel in the fillings of my teeth. My grandmother had hidden this away thirty years ago—right around the time she stopped doing field exorcisms and opened the Matchmaking Service. Whatever was inside that box, she hadn't wanted it floating around in the world.

And more importantly, I couldn't let some clueless collector buy it at an estate auction and accidentally unleash whatever spectral nightmare was strapped inside.

"Fine," I grumbled, snatching the pen from Gabriel's hand. I signed my name along the dotted line of the transfer form with a flourish. "There. Hand it over."

Gabriel picked up the signed paper, reviewed it with a professional eye, and tucked it into his briefcase. "Pleasure doing business with you, Miss Vance."

He picked up his umbrella, but before he turned to leave, he cast a slow, searching look around my office. His gaze lingered on the cold spots in the air, the faint residue of violet smoke near the ceiling, and finally, the faint glow of the silver wire on the box.

"You really believe in all this, don't you?" he asked quietly. The cynicism in his tone was gone, replaced by a strange, sharp curiosity.

"I don't need to believe in it, Mr. Ward," I said, pulling the black box toward me. "It's my four o'clock appointment. Have a nice evening."

Gabriel offered a faint, enigmatic smile, tipped his head slightly, and turned for the door. "Watch out for the frost, Miss Vance. Your radiator seems to be leaking cold air."

He stepped out into the rain, the heavy glass door clicking shut behind him.

I stood alone in the quiet lobby, staring at the black box sitting on my desk. The silver wires were cool to the touch, but the wood beneath them felt hot, pulsating like a tiny, trapped heart.

"What did you lock away, Grandma?" I muttered under my breath.

Before I could investigate further, the grandfather clock in the corner chimed six times. Six o'clock.

I cursed under my breath. Two hours until Arthur’s date, and I still had to set up the emotional harmonization candles, polish the silver tea set, and check the astral terrace coordinates for Clara’s arrival.

I grabbed the black box, carried it over to my iron wall safe behind the painting of the Victorian landscape, shoved it inside, and slammed the heavy door shut, twisting the dial. The box could wait until tomorrow. Tonight belonged to Arthur and Clara.

I returned to the Parlor, taking a moment to center myself before beginning the final preparations.

The Parlor was more than just a room; it was an intersection. When two ghosts sat down for a resolution date, they were bringing decades—sometimes centuries—of unexpressed grief, anger, and longing into a tiny, confined space. If the emotional charge became too high, it could cause a localized spiritual feedback loop. The lights would blow out, the temperature would freeze the tea solid, and the spirits would lock themselves in a permanent state of haunt-trauma.

My job as the matchmaker wasn't just to set the table; it was to manage the energy flow.

I walked the perimeter of the room, using a small brass burner to spread a thin haze of white sage and cinnamon smoke along the baseboards. Sage cleared the lingering bitterness of past heartbreaks, while cinnamon encouraged warmth and openness.

Next, I turned my attention to the center table.

I placed a clear crystal bowl in the center of the oak table and filled it with clear water drawn from a natural spring. I dropped three dried rose petals onto the surface. This was the Scrying Focal. When Arthur and Clara sat down, the water would reflect the memories they shared, allowing them to visually see the moments they were discussing. It helped bridge the gap between memory and reality.

By seven-thirty, the room was perfect.

The fireplace crackled with a soft, steady flame, throwing amber light across the velvet drapes. The bayberry candles were lit, filling the air with the cozy, woody scent of winter green. The Spirit Tea was simmering gently in the brass pot, casting thin plumes of aromatic, ectoplasm-infused steam into the air.

The Parlor was ready.

I stepped back, admiring the space. It looked warm, inviting, and completely disconnected from the cold, rainy night outside.

Right on cue, at seven-fifty-five, the temperature in the room dropped precisely three degrees.

The wall beside the fireplace shimmered, and Arthur Pendelton materialized into view.

He looked significantly better than he had during his afternoon intake. His tweed suit was crisp, his translucent wingtips were polished to a mirror shine, and in his right hand, he was holding a remarkably stable, radiant crimson rose. The ghost-bloom looked so real you could almost smell the fresh soil on its stem.

"Miss Vance," Arthur said, his voice trembling with a mixture of terror and awe. "I... I think I managed the rose."

"It's beautiful, Arthur," I said warmly, walking over to check his aura. It was a bright, nervous blue, flickering around his edges like static electricity. "Take a deep breath. Or the phantom equivalent of one. How are your nerves?"

"Terrified," he confessed, smoothing down his tie with shaking hands. "What if she looks at me and only sees seventy years of wasted time? What if she hates me?"

"Clara didn't wait seventy years on the astral terrace because she hates you, Arthur," I reminded him softly. "She waited because she loved you, and she deserves to know that you loved her enough to try and reach her, even after death."

Arthur looked at the red rose in his hand, his eyes softening. "Seventy-two years..."

"And three months," I added with a smile. "Now, take your seat at the left side of the table. Remember: sit close enough to see the water, keep your voice gentle, and let her speak first."

Arthur walked to the table, his translucent shoes gliding silently across the rug. He pulled out the heavy oak chair and sat down. As his spectral body made contact with the enchanted wood, he solidified slightly, his tweed suit taking on a richer, more defined color.

"It feels... solid," Arthur murmured, running his fingers along the polished wood of the table. "I haven't felt wood under my hands since 1952."

"That's the Parlor at work," I said, stepping back toward the corner of the room where I had a small observation desk. "Now, sit tight. I'm going to open the astral doorway."

I took a breath, reached into my pocket, and pulled out a small silver bell.

Opening a gateway to the upper astral terrace required precision. If you rang the bell with too much force, you could attract rogue phantoms like Alexander. Ring it too softly, and the signal wouldn't cut through the atmospheric static.

I closed my eyes, focused my energy on Clara’s intake signature—a gentle, sweet aura that smelled of oil paints and lavender—and struck the silver bell once.

Clear. Pure. Resonant.

The sound vibrated through the room, humming against the quartz-lined walls.

In the center of the Parlor, just opposite Arthur’s chair, the air began to ripple like water on a quiet lake. A soft, warm golden light bloomed in the space, completely different from the cold blue glow that usually accompanied earthbound spirits.

The golden light slowly expanded, forming the soft outline of a woman.

Arthur stood up so quickly his chair scraped loudly against the floor. "Clara..." he whispered, his voice catching in his throat.

The golden light dissolved, leaving behind a woman standing by the table. She looked to be in her early twenties—the age she had been when she last saw Arthur at the Midtown Hotel. She wore a simple, elegant dark green dress from the 1950s, her soft brown hair styled in delicate waves around her shoulders. She held a small, beaded purse tightly against her stomach.

She blinked, looking around the warm, candlelit Parlor in confusion, before her eyes finally landed on the tall, nervous man standing across the table from her.

"Arthur?" she whispered.

The room went dead silent. The crackle of the fireplace seemed to freeze. The bayberry candles burned steady and bright.

Arthur took a tiny, hesitant step forward, holding out the crimson rose with hands that shook violently.

"I... I missed the elevator, Clara," Arthur said, a tear of pure, luminous ectoplasm rolling down his ghost-cheek. "I am so, so sorry I kept you waiting."

Clara stared at the rose, then up at Arthur’s face. Slowly, a trembling smile broke across her features, and she stepped across the threshold of the astral veil into the Parlor.

I quietly took my seat at the observation desk in the corner, opening my ledger to record the session. The date had officially begun.